Burn
by RedandBlackBeads
Summary: With no one else to turn to, Harry falls into the all-enveloping comfort of a seductive beauty; Fire. Featuring a neutral, pyromaniac and slightly crazy Harry. No  planned  pairings. FifthYearAR
1. First Light

**Burn  
**

**Summary: **With no one else to turn to, Harry falls into the all-enveloping comfort of a seductive beauty; Fire. Featuring a neutral, pyromaniac and slightly crazy Harry. No (planned) pairings. Non-Canon.

**Author's Note:** I love fire. So I decided (seeing as all my lighters, matches and candles have long since been confiscated) to fulfill my craving in the form of a fanfiction! I don't know if I will continue this into a full-length fanfiction, with enough support and ideas I might make something of this … but really, who knows? I'll write if I feel like writing (which is really the way it should be, anyway.)

* * *

_First Light_

This wasn't the first time he'd been sent by his Uncle or Aunt to the corner store, and he knew for sure it wouldn't be the last. Really, it surprised him every time that they would trust him with even the meager handful of pounds they threw in his hand, usually coupled with a paper list as long as his arm and a sour look that Harry was sure could have spoiled milk. It wouldn't exactly be hard to take the money, ditch the list and hitch a ride into London, where a vault filled to the brim of golden, silver and bronze coins was just waiting for him to dig into.

It wouldn't be hard … but really, with the most evil of wizards having been reincarnated just a few weeks ago, he didn't want to test his luck. Because, following the trend of his long and extremely unfortunate life, the odds were the self-proclaimed "Dark Lord" was bound to be lurking in the seat behind him.

No, perhaps it would be best to get the money, get the food (and whatever the fuck else Dudley wanted), and get the hell back home before Death Eaters started popping out of trashcans in their neighbors front lawn.

Sighing, Harry plodded along the well-beaten path with a small pouch of coins jingling in his pocket. This time it was a relatively simple expedition; milk, bread, a tub of butter, the morning paper, and a lighter for his Uncle's most recent health-violation, smoking. Honestly, the man was sure to drop dead any day now. Which, Harry admitted to himself as he slid through the hanging flaps that covered the store door, he personally wouldn't be too fussed about it.

Knowing he had to be quick, before the ever suspicious storekeeper accused him of loitering, Harry threw a few bottles of milk, three loaves of bread and two slabs of butter into the plastic basket, and stepped up behind the old Mrs. Figg at the counter. The paper was kept in a thick pile beside the till, and he could see the stand of lighters from here, just out of polite reach.

And as he stood there, waiting patiently (who in their right mind would be in a rush to return to the Hell his summer home was swiftly becoming?), a tacky, hand-made sign caught his eye in the most horrendous shade of fluorescent orange.

'SALE,' it proclaimed in lopsided marker-pen. 'TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE.' The scrap of card had been gaudily taped to a cardboard half-box filled with various designs of the square, metal-capped lighters Harry had often seen in movies his cousin watched late at night – a 'Zippo' style lighter, if his memory served him well, or at least an imitation of one.

_Huh,_ Harry thought, intrigued. The Dursley's had never trusted him with a lighter before; the closest that could compare was being 'permitted' to lighting a gas burner during a black-out in his childhood. The thought of owning one for himself amused him, if only for the reason it was one of the few things the Dursleys had outright refused him; the majority of things deprived from him were not forbidden, but rather taken in such a way that implied he would never be seeing it again (memories of burnt magazines, eaten lollies and a congratulatory certificate his 'Aunt's' dog Ripper had ... _digested, _came to mind.)

_Two for the price of one … that means I have enough! They'll never know …_ Harry's warmed to the idea, growing more and more eager until he was actually bouncing a little on the spot. _Late at night when the streetlamps go out … yeah, I'll try it then. The Dursleys are sure to be asleep, and I could use a little light to do my homework in_. Harry's only light, a desk-lamp, had blown just a few nights before, rendering his plan to complete the homework set by his optimistic professors during the night impossible.

Only a few seconds later, Harry found himself stepping up to the wooden counter, dropping the basket on the surface and throwing a paper on top of the resulting chaos, taking advantage of the pause as the storekeeper worked to see just what it was the teenager was purchasing and using it to evaluate the lighters scattered on the bottom of the old, beat-up box.

Picking out a plain, dull metal one for his Uncle (no way in Hell was he doing that bastard any favours), it took Harry only a few scarce moments to choose his own one. It had an engraved surface, on side covered completely in black except for the white markings that drew a Chinese symbol of Luck, the English translation written in smaller italics below. He felt drawn to it, because he knew better than anyone he was due some luck sooner or later.

"And these too, please," he told the tiller, who nodded absently and ran the bill up without question.

Harry left the store moments later, feeling particularly accomplished that Monday morning, two plastic bags hanging one from each hand and a black, white and silver lighter tucked into his shoe, waiting for him.

No sooner had he delivered the food items and returned the change to his Aunt, than Harry had been thrown out the back door with a vague shout of "Boy – Weeds – Shed!" and a ringing after-tone that would linger for hours.

Sighing, knowing it would be a long day before he would return to his room that night, Harry threw himself into the work with an aching back, tanned neck and roughened hands blackened with dirt and moss.

At least this time, there was something to look forward to at the end of all this.

* * *

Sunset, and Harry had been thrown to his room (he was beginning to realize a trend in his latest method of travel) without dinner, on the account of his Aunt's stone bird bath had cracked sometime in the night – which, of course, _must_ have been his fault. Idiots.

Harry scoffed and winced as the door was locked behind him, absently counting in his mind as he nursed a wrist he'd twisted in the unplanned reunion with his bedroom floor. Three of the possible seven locks tonight; Uncle was in a good mood tonight, but wouldn't be checking in on him later (a system Harry had decoded a few days into the holidays – below three locks meant he'd be coming up later to 'talk' with him, three to five implied he had been satisfied with his nephew's suffering for the day and anything above five, Harry was generally too out of it to notice on account of the pounding bruise he would no doubt be nursing on the crown of his head, among other things.)

Harry picked himself off the thin carpet and sprawled on his equally-thin bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling and counting the cracks, ignoring the pain in his stomach the way only a seasoned 'dieter' could.

_Is it time? Is it time? Can I? Can I _now_? No, it's still light out … now? Now? When will it be time!_ It took nearly all of his self control not to whip the lighter out then and there, but he knew that with the Dursleys still awake, the neighborhood still buzzing outside his curtain-less window and every possibility that Aunt Petunia would come calling for him to clean up the atomic mess known as "dishes," he didn't want to risk it.

Only when the last door had closed, when the light had faded from the sky and all that was left awake in the world was him, only _then_ did Harry finally, slowly slide a hand into his sock and pull out the metallic, glinting lighter.

Something came over him, then; he wasn't sure what, only that it was … exhilarating, intoxicating. It took him a moment, but he was quick to realize exactly what it was he was feeling, with every fibre of his body.

It was power.

It wasn't the same as when he held his wand, or his broom, or any of the magical artifacts he'd come across in his time as a wizard. This was something entirely muggle, something no wizard (or at least, no pureblooded wizard) had experienced. This was something that was all his, something no one could take away from him. It was raw power, the power of destruction and warmth and ashes and light and … life.

It was the power of _fire_.

Harry flicked the cap open almost reverently, and ran his finger over the unused mechanics, the flint, the thumbwheel where he left his finger hovering in anticipation. He pressed his thumb to the grooved curve, tilted the lighter just a little to the left, then flexed.

And there was _fire_.

* * *

Harry didn't know how long he sat there, sheets tangled around his knees as he stared, captivated, into the dancing flame. He blew gently, to watch it waver; he blew hard to see at it was reduced to nothing more than a spark, only to roar back to life as the inch-high flame burned steadily in the night. He moved his hand from side to side, he tilted it forward and back, he ran his fingers through the heat first quickly, then slower and slower as he grew accustomed to the feathery feeling, and the heat no longer burned him, but rather _caressed_ him, almost lovingly.

An idea struck him, and he climbed on a dusty old chest in one corner to reach the top-most shelf of Dudley's old, broken toys. Rummaging around, he soon found what he had been looking for.

Candles.

There were seven of them all together, three of the long, thin sort that had yet to be lit, one that was also thin yet melted to halfway, two short but fat black candles to contrast the four white, and one last candle that was as tall and thick as a clenched fist, coloured a deep blood red and as fresh as the day it was bought.

A grin stole over Harry's face, a wild grin, a feral grin any wizard or witch to have seen it would have fainted over.

Harry had never felt this … _alive_.

Lighting only one of the seven candles to start with, Harry flicked the lighter shut to preserve the fluid within, not knowing when he would be able to refill it should it run out. The candle he had lit was the smallest black one, and he watched entranced as the thick string coiled and blackened in the flame. He noticed the wax beginning mound up, and ran his finger through the hot pool, almost – _almost –_ laughing. Oh, he felt the pain – but the wax swiftly cooled, leaving a tight feeling against his skin and a small red patch of skin on his fingertip when he peeled the black substance away.

Glancing back at the single flame, Harry's thoughts began to wander. It was surprising, that he would find so much amusement and purpose in such a simple thing. Fire was one of the age-old tools man had discovered to survive; only in recent years had their dependency on the raw, unforgiving power fallen, what with the introduction of electricity, gas heaters, microwaves, jugs and other inventions that rendered fire almost useless. Wizards, of course, had never needed fire to the extent Muggles, non-magical folk, had. Wizards had charms to provide heat, to insulate, to cook at a whim and boil water with a thought. They did not have the reverence and respect many in the non-magical world held.

Harry knew that there were many out there – in the world beyond what he could see and touch – who feared fire, who had died or been injured beyond hope of recovery at the hands of fire. He understood that fire was not something one should abuse, nor take advantage of. He knew it was not to be trusted, he _knew_ that … but there was something so … seductive about it. Such a dangerous beauty, fire, who could turn on the hand who created it without mercy.

_But maybe that is all just part of the thrill,_ Harry thought to himself as he circled his fingertip – the wax-burned one – through the candle. _Fire can help you, or it can hurt you. It can never be tamed, it can never be controlled absolutely._ Harry smiled fondly at the flickering light, casting shadows over his desk and bringing light to his emerald eyes for the first time in weeks. _Every time you light a match is a gamble, every moment of light or warmth comes with the risk of destruction. But, with proper care … with the right degree of respect, and trust …_ Harry let his palm hover over the candle, letting the tiny warmth seep into him. _Anything is possible._ Harry brought his thumb and forefingers together in a pincer-like movement over the burnt wick, extinguishing the flame without hesitation.

And without even a hint of pain flaring along his fingers, the wax-burn having long since faded, Harry slid into bed with a smile the widest he'd worn since before that night, where he had witnessed far more than anyone his age, or of any age, should ever have to see.

* * *

So, what did you think? Please review! If I get enough positive feedback, I'll extend this into a full length fanfiction (after I figure out an actual plot for it ^^)


	2. Second Light

**Burn**

**Disclaimer: **Because I forgot to put it in Chapter One. Although it really should be obvious, seeing as fire plays a very minor role in Canon Harry Potter. I don't own. (Although, looking at the cover for 'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince' … :D)

**Author's Note:** I wrote this chapter in two parts; the first scene was written when I was in a serious, deadpanned, school-is-my-redemption type of attitude. The rest was written in a cynical, playful and "fuck the world, I have chocolate" kind of mindset. :3

**Review Replies: **"_You said you don't have a planned pairing ... will you do a poll or something?" _Probably. Eventually. Maybe. It's too early to tell :)

Thank you for all the reviews! :)

* * *

_Second Light_

One week after obtaining the lighter, and Harry was officially obsessed.

Every day without fail, from the second he was thrown, tossed or shoved into his room (he really needed to start working on that), the lighter was flipped out and burning, its warmth and light enough to erode the gloom of the small, depressing room he had been allocated. The flame drove away any of the words, taunts, pinches or slaps, degrading names or bruised egos he had suffered that day, and replaced them all with a feeling of being … home. Something he had certainly never felt before at Number Four Privet Drive, was now something he felt every night without fail as he stared into the glowing light and watched as his troubles faded away.

It almost became something religious to him; flip on the lighter, light a candle or two when the streetlights finally timed out, then stare almost as if in a trance into the dancing, beautiful fire that had ensnared him.

Without a doubt, that purchase in the corner store down the road had been the salvation of his very existence.

Before that day, every night was spent in the cold grasp of nightmares – no, memories that he _wished_ were nightmares. Watching the death of his classmate over and over, watching the resurrection of Voldemort over and over, helpless as the most unimaginable pain was cast at him, over and over and over again.

But that first night, when he had fallen asleep with hands still warm from the glow of the flames, he had slept more soundly and calmly and peacefully than he ever had.

In a matter of days, the difference was plain to see. The deep hanging shadows beneath Harry's eyes faded, his eyes lost their hallowed look and light began to return to his face. He soon began waking before his Aunt came to call on him, and even – voluntarily – partook in extra chores without having to be asked, something that was completely unheard of in the Dursley household.

His Aunt and Uncle had noticed the change, but never commented on it much further than a curt nod or less meals being withheld through the course of the day. However, behind closed doors in the dark of night, they could be heard talking quietly with one another, congratulating themselves on finally beating some sense into 'that rotten boy.'

Harry, who could hear them quite clearly from his room just down the hall, laughed when he heard this, and turned back to the line of five candles he had lit on his windowsill, smirking broadly.

Fire had begun to consume him, he knew this. It had, somehow, become _everything_ to him. When he woke, the first thing he thought of what that flame. When he worked, when he cooked and cleaned, when he slaved in the yard and mucked about in the garden, all he could see in his mind's vision was _that flame_. And when he returned to his room, victorious and glowing, he only thing he could think of was that tiny little fire that had, somehow, kindled hope in him.

On the night of one week and three days since that moment, when he had bought the lighter and everything had changed, was a night that would once again turn Harry Potter's world on it's tiny little axis, spinning gently.

It was the first night that Harry had dreamed of fire. At first, the fire consumed him. It destroyed him. It removed his presence from every memory and thought, as if he had never existed at all.

But then, when there was nothing left of him but ashes and dust, when he was a mere shadow in the wind … the fire rose once more.

Some consciousness of him remained, some flicker of thought, but all it could manage to ponder was this, weary and resigned:

_What is it this time?_

The fire paused. It had circled him once, twice. It crept upon him, burning in vain, and when it realized that there was nothing left of the one who had spoken, it roared to life, a flame far greater or higher than Harry had seen before in his expansive life. It dwarfed him, it materialized every fear he had ever had, every thought of destruction or pain or death this flame consumed and used to grow ever high and higher.

Then, it vanished.

And Harry woke.

And, following what could only be a dream of prophetic qualities his Divination Professor often boasted and raved of, he could think of one thing, and one thing only.

"What _the_ _fuck_ just happened."

* * *

When sunrise finally rolled around, Harry forced himself out of bed, feeling strangely lethargic and weak. Well, what with the barest rations he'd scavenged away – _weaker_. He rubbed his left eye that had been itching annoyingly ever since he woke, and pulled on a tattered shirt, ready to face the newest day of torture. He glanced over to a small tear in the wallpaper, behind which he had carved out a hollow in the wall and shoved his lighter into, in case his Uncle decided to grace him with his presence. The candles were hidden where he had found them, at the peak of the unused shelves.

Harry tip-toed down the stairs, making sure not to wake his still-sleeping relatives. Breakfast would be … hm, it was the second week of the holidays, so maybe something light. Six pieces of toast each – only two for Aunt Petunia, of course – with four eggs per imitation-whale, three sausages and one-and-a-half packets of bacon. Oh, and a half of the bottle of Coca Cola his cousin had brought home just the night before.

And so, everything fell into place as it always did in the Dursley household … until …

"OH MY GOD!" Aunt Petunia _screeched_, clutching her heart and falling against the door frame, staring in horror at Harry, who stood dishing eggs onto Dudley's unattended plate (his Aunt being the first down) dressed in a short floral apron with matching rubber gloves. "What – what is _wrong_ with your -"

And then: the fainted.

Harry stared down at her collapsed form, shrugged, and retreated into the kitchen. He scooped a polished spoon from the drawer on his way, and leaned against the slowly filling sink as he turned the outwards-bent curve to his eyes.

Ah. Yes, that would do it, wouldn't it?

Some part of him felt a – sadness, a sense of loss at the familiar feature that had been replaced. _But, _on the other hand …

_This, is _way_ cool. _

Where before he had seen and recognized _two_ emerald green, sparkling eyes … one was now -

Red. But not the red that one would assume, not the deep, ruby red of Voldemort, not the milky red of an Albino, not the bright of a fire engine. This red was – changing, flickering. Sometimes a ruby red, sometimes milky, sometimes bright, sometimes orange and dancing, sometimes _blue_ -

This wasn't mere red.

This was _fire_.

Harry stared into that one eye, remembering his dream, remembering that feeling of consumption, of _possession_ – not of owning something, but of _being_ owned. And now, he knew just what it was that owned him.

The corners of his lips crept into a rouge smile, baring his teeth and stretching his lips into a smirk as his left, now pupil-less eye flickered briefly.

Fire.

Dropping the spoon in the overflowing sink, he turned purposefully and slid from the room, skulking up the stairs in a noiseless stalk and closing his bedroom door behind him with a quiet click.

Fire.

Sinking to a crouch before the half-bare wallpaper, he drew the lighter out and stared at it in wonder for almost a minute before his fingers moved to open the cap.

_Fire_.

He ran his fingers over the instruments reverently, both his eyes shining with fondness and eager anticipation.

_Fire!_

He curled his thumb, and watched as the flame sparked to life.

_Fire!_

His red eye now warmed in sympathy, and he knew the flames within them danced to the same beat the one before him did. Flickering, fading, only to whip back to life and shape, all in movements almost too quick for the human eye to follow …

God, he loved fire.

And, as a warmth that was not his own, as a rhythm, as a secretive dance, as murmuring words and crackling whispers, all washed through him … he knew that fire loved _him_ too.

* * *

"I'm leaving."

No answer.

Of course, that was to be expected. She was unconscious, after all.

_I'm leaving_.

There was – so much _freedom_ in those two words, so much emotion could be tied up in them. Such simple words that could change a life forever.

His lighter was safely kept in his padded pocket, his candles wrapped in tissue-paper and hidden in the folds of a jumper he had slung over one arm. His trunk had been emptied and any useful items - books, quills, ink-pots or half-finished scrolls of homework – had been thrown into an old backpack he'd found in storage a week ago. He wasn't taking any clothes, which made up the majority of his trunk in the form of too-small uniforms and tattered Dudley hand-downs. One of the first things he planned to do once he left this hell-pit was, for the first time, indulge. Be selfish. Think only of himself. A luxury he had never, not _once_, been permitted.

Well, now – all that was about to change.

Swinging the admittedly heavy bag over his shoulder, Harry fingered the wand in his lighter-less pocket – making sure it was there for about the hundredth time – and casually opened his Uncle's wallet, sitting innocently on the kitchen bench. Opening the jacket and "saving" a handful of notes, Harry threw the depleted leather onto the kitchen table, stuffed the stol - … _borrowed_ pounds into his pocket, and drew his invisibility clock from the bag.

It was time.

* * *

It took an hour and a half to bus from Privet Drive to the nearest train station, and by then the air was beginning to warm up. Harry amused himself on the long train ride into London imagining Vernon's face as he found not only an unconscious Petunia, but his noticeably thinner wallet, and the empty room at the top of the stairs. And if he earned himself a few – strange looks, chucking at nothing, he certainly didn't care.

It was as if – pardon the pun – a fire had been lit within him, frightening away all bad or dark thoughts and leaving only humor and amusement. _Everything_ was amusing to him, everything was … good. It wasn't as if there was no wrong, there was no evil; it was more as if a … _cynical_ twist had forced it's way into his rose-coloured world, and now, he couldn't help but laugh at the bleakness of everything.

The solemn expressions of the muggles that surrounded him. The 'if-I-don't-make-this-in-time-the-world's-going-to-end' attitude so many of them radiated. The way children fought over the window seat with every ounce of cunning and determination they could muster, as though it truly mattered who had the better view of the world flying past them.

Harry noted at one point, he had not had this view of the World even so much as a day before. Something had happened; something had changed him.

Ah. Yes.

If this was what fire had done to him … he fucking _loved_ it.

* * *

Standing at the entrance to The Leaky Cauldron, Harry suddenly found himself posed with a serious issue.

Everyone in the Wizarding World knew him to be living with his muggle relatives, at least until about late August when he would be dragged by his heels into Diagon Alley, surrounded by red-heads and -

Heh. Red-heads. _Fire_.

- and paraded about like a trophy. So; if he was supposed to be bundled up in his room like a good little boy … it wouldn't do for him to suddenly appear in the most popular Wizarding hang-out in mid-June now, would it?

With no inclination of self-consciousness, having stopped dead in the middle of the lunch-time rush staring at a shop front only he could see, Harry turned his head from side to side, searching the outlets and thinking lazily.

_I have to hide my scar … and my eye – goddamn, I'd forgotten about the eye. Harry Potter is supposed to have green eyes! Not – not _red_. _

He ran his thoughts over his appearance, wondering what he needed to change.

Okay. Scar. Eyes. Glasses? Clothes. And these _fucking_ shoes.

But – it was a little hard to accomplish all this, when one has no – or at least, very little – money. And right now, his only source of money might as well have been on a deserted island in the Pacific for all that he could reach it.

Staring at the meager amount of pounds he had left from his long journey to London, Harry eyed a nearby pharmacist, thinking fast.

* * *

Leaving the health store, feeling distinctly ripped-off, Harry had to resist the urge to run to the nearest washroom. It had been nerve wrecking, standing in that store and checking himself every other minute making sure he had no – absolutely _no_ – eye contact with _anyone_. Even one glance with his obviously not-normal eye, and he was pretty sure he could be charged with breaking the Secrecy-whatsit Hermione was always harping on about.

Finding an abandoned washroom that had a somewhat-clean mirror, Harry dropped his backpack and fished through the plastic bag he'd been given, producing a roll of off-white bandages, a metallic pin and a small bottle of cheap woman's cover-up.

This had better work, and he'd _better_ not see anyone he knew in there. He'd never live it down if anyone saw him wearing _make-up_.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, a teenaged boy with tidily-wrapped bandages covering one eye and a slightly off-coloured forehead entered the shady pub, his long, thin fingers wrapped around his bag-strap loosely. His one green eye flickered around the hazed room – hazed not because of smoke or heat, but because he literally couldn't see a _thing_.

The way he saw, there was a small list of things that labeled him as him. Eyes, glasses, scar. The trademark glasses were usually seen first; then the eyes, then the scar. Ergo; no glasses, no Harry Potter.

He was immediately regretting this train of thought as he stood at the blur of dusty red he for the love of _God_ could not label as a brick wall. His hands roamed over the rough surface, and he nearly jumped in relief when a prick of light finally spread from a central point in the mess of colour and movement the world had become.

Now, he had only one obstacle between himself and money.

Shoppers. And not just any shoppers.

_Woman_ shoppers.

* * *

Harry stumbled into Gringotts with a distant impression of feeling violated, his hair mussed more than usual as the variously-aged women crooned over his "injury" and apparently "overwhelmed," or even better, "lost" expression. With his size, they had assumed him to be a first year separated from his parents; taking this into his advantage, Harry had gestured to the looming white presence he prayed was Gringotts, and let them do the walking.

Pushing through the revolving glass doors, Harry fumbled his way to the nearest counter, slammed his tiny golden key onto the polished marble and asked roughly to be escorted to his vault, if you please.

Half an hour, and a _veeery_ interesting cart-ride later, Harry was back where he started, outside The Leaky Cauldron with a thick wad of pounds in an envelope and no clue where to start.

Sighing, Harry stroked the bandages that covered his firey eye.

"Well, first things first," he muttered to himself as he took his first step. "_Food_."

* * *

_**A/N:** Sorry for the abrupt ending! I really don't want to go over a whole "Harry goes shopping! Let's spend 10,000 words celebrating!" I am a girl, but for all that I love shopping, I really don't want to torture the poor boy. So – no shopping. I want badass Harry without having to work for it – and, being the author, I can do whatever the hell I want. Score._


	3. Third Light

**Burn**

**Disclaimer: **I may not own Harry Potter, but I _do_ own three and a half pairs of socks, one sweet little kitten and my sketchbook :) And as of this morning, a Vic-signed Edward Elric pocketwatch!

**Author's Note:** I opened my laptop to find twenty Fanfiction messages! In eight hours! Thank you so much, guys!

Most of this was written after Armageddon (NZ's version of Comic Con, aka Geekville), so I am just a _lil'_ (squint) bit exhausted. Just a lil' bit … (zonks out.)

Anywho, things get a little strange from here on out. Just letting you know.

* * *

**Key: **

_Italics _– Thoughts and/or Emphasis

_**Bold Italics **_– Fire Speak. You'll see what I mean …

* * *

_Third Light_

That night camping out in a middle-class, muggle hotel, Harry finally, _finally_ pulled out those irresistible candles. He'd been suppressing the urge all morning, all afternoon, all through the never-ending hours he'd spent wandering from shop to shop, laden with bags and unable to magic them away. But somehow … it didn't seem _right_ to admire that dancing beauty without the mysterious shadows of night licking away at the fragile light.

He lined the candles up in the almost obsessive-compulsive manner he'd developed over the past week, first a black candle, then white, then the thickest, then another white, a black, the last white one and finally his personal favorite, the half-melted candle he knew would be the first he'd see to go, but loved all the more for it. He sat cross-legged before them, his sock-fitted feet curled under his knees loosely

Taking out his lighter, he slowly, methodically, lit them. One by one, gazing into them each as lovingly as the next. It was strange, but he could almost _feel _the fire crackle in approval as he chose not to disregard even one of the seven candles, instead layering affection over all equally. His eye throbbed to a strange heart-beat that wasn't his, and he unwrapped the bandages slowly, somehow knowing that this was what it wanted … whatever "_it_" was.

The moment his eye was free from the dark confines, the flames before him … changed.

They were no longer tamed or docile, no longer confined by mere size or strength of fuel. Now, they roared to life, far greater than any candle Harry had seen before, and with such intoxicating colour and depth it took his breath away. His fiery eye widened impossibly, the depths where a pupil should have been hinting at violet-blue, the hottest and wildest of flames.

Compelled by something he couldn't even begin to understand, Harry extended his bare, trembling hand into the wall of fire and flame that had merged before him, impossibly thick, impossibly bright … just … _impossible_.

His hand passed right through, as if there was nothing there. But … he could feel it, caressing him, loving him, warming him from the inside out.

_**Harry … **_

Harry closed his eyes half-lid, swaying as if drunk under a rush of beautiful power that had encompassed him. A voice, one he'd never heard before, neither male nor female, simply … _there_. His lips parted, his fingers separating to card through the flames like locks of hair, a sensation not unlike running a hand through the wind outside a fast-moving car. The fire supported him when all strength seemed to leave him, the pure energy rushing, flowing down his arms and engulfing his body to keep him upright. Tendrils curled across his cheeks, his nose, his eyes. The fire was _everywhere_, it was taking over him.

And he was letting it.

_**Burn …**_

His fingers reached, contorted, then moved into a half-cup that pooled with flame and warmth and light. Moving his arm from the screen of fire, Harry watched unthinkingly as that handful of flame _kept on burning_.

_**For me, Harry. Burn for **_**me**_** …**_

Harry brought the hand – as if were no longer his hand, rather _their_ hand – closer to his face and felt their reflection in his eyes, in his soul.

_**I know you, Harry. I see **_**you**_**. **_

Harry felt something wet down the curve his cheek, something warm and salty and -

_**Why are you crying, Harry? **_

"If you see me … _me_ … you should know better than I do," Harry murmured. _No one sees me. Not the real me. They see Harry Potter. But you … you can only see Harry. Just … Harry. _

_**Just Harry … **_

Ron, his best friend; the first words they'd spoken, the first memory they'd shared - _"Are you really _Harry Potter_?"_ Hermione, the same - _"I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?" "Harry Potter-" "Are you really? I know all about you, of course-"_

All it took was for them to learn his name, and already they'd assumed to know each and every aspect of his life, his past, his future. It had only taken him this long to see it. Even if it might not be that way now; the beginning, when their friendship was only just sending down it's first shoots, had been built on one thing, and one thing only.

Lies.

Without thought, Harry took the flames he cupped gently and pressed them to his clothed heart with both pale hands, relishing in the feeling of comfort and protection that radiated from that pleasantly-warm spot.

_**I'm here for you, Harry. **_

"I know."

_**No … you don't. I'm here for **_**you**_**, Harry.**_

The emphasis on those words was somehow … different to every other time he'd heard them (which, admittedly, wasn't very often.) It felt different, just as words spoken in jest – _I'm going to kill you!_ - sounded so, _so_ different when passed from the lips of one's mortal enemy.

For me. For … _me_. The thought had never occurred to him before. _Me._ Harry savored the moment, his hands almost flat on his chest now, the flames nearly, _nearly_ gone.

"Thank you."

Happiness spread throughout his body, to the tips of his fingers, to the roots of his hair. It was an emotion he impossibly knew wasn't his own. With that happiness flowed warmth, searing him, yet soothing his at the same time. Consuming, yet rebuilding. Burning, yet healing.

_**I am with you now, Harry. **_

Harry opened his fingers, to see the fire had gone. _No – not gone. Just … different. _

_**I am a part of you, Harry. **_

Happiness.

_**And I will never, never leave. **_

* * *

Waking the next morning, feeling as if he'd fallen into a warped variety of the Twilight Zone. Nothing had changed. But, at the same time, _everything_ had.

Slipping his new coloured contacts into his eyes – shifting both emerald green and unnerving red into a shady hazel – Harry paused to take note of his reflection. There was – something not quite … right. Something had changed, but it wasn't a visible change, it wasn't something he could _see_ … It wasn't the glasses, or absence of them. It wasn't the better-matched cover-up he'd bought when he'd had more time to compare shades and find one more suited to his complexion. It wasn't the healthy flush that now adorned his usually pale cheeks. It wasn't his unruly-as-ever hair.

Then he saw it.

There, in the corner of his mouth, hiding from the world like a shy child. It was something quite simple, something one usually acknowledged only at a subconscious level. Something so commonplace, it was a wonder Harry had noticed it at all.

It was a smile.

It had never been a habit of his to smile. He could grimace, smirk, poke out his tongue and do just about everything else under the sun, but one thing that did not come naturally was the little quirk, that twist of the lips which, somehow, was a universal sign of happiness. He'd never had much to smile for, after all.

Yet; there it was, as plain as day. Without thinking, without conscious decision, without stimulus or joke or amusing daydream, he was _smiling_.

Heat flared suddenly, pinpricking along his veins until he could _feel_ each and every single one of them.

"Is that _you_ doing that?" Harry breathed to his reflection; his vision narrowing specifically on the hazel contact he knew hid his burning red eye.

A shadowy voice laughed merrily in his ear.

_**Already, you know me too well, Harry.**_

Harry reached out with one hand, touching the mirror with his fingertips, mindless of the smudges he was leaving behind.

"How ..."

_**-is this possible? Harry, Harry, if I told you now, it wouldn't be much fun at all, would it? **_

Harry closed his eyes, fighting a rueful if amused smile, and shook his head, chuckling deep in his throat.

"Are you – a _part_ of me?"

_**In a way.**_

"You're not one to say things straight out, are you?"

… _**maybe.**_

Harry hadn't laughed this hard in years. But what was even better, is that he wasn't sure _why _he was laughing; the joke hadn't been all _that_ funny. But, none-the-less, _something_ was spiraling through him, and even minutes later he still knelt on the wooden floor of that muggle hotel, his eyes crying tears of joy at something _he didn't understand._

Finally straightening and wiping dry tears from his eyes, Harry faced his smirking reflection, winked uncharacteristically in an involuntary movement he knew wasn't his own, and turned to get ready for the day.

* * *

Two days later, and Harry … was _cold_.

It wasn't a – _normal_ cold, not one he could acquire from snow or chilled water. In fact, being the middle of one of the hottest summers London had seen in a long time, he should have been anything _but_ cold.

Yet; here he was, lying under a midday sun sporting three beanies, two scarfs, a full length trench-coat hiding three Weasley jumpers and a long-sleeved polo, two pairs of jeans and thick woolen socks, and a pair of too-large gumboots. Sprawled out on the veranda of his motel room, from behind his heavily tinted glasses Harry shivered uncontrollably.

_What's wrong!_ he thought desperately. _Why is this happening?_

_**Harry- you- **_the calming voice of the fire that had latched itself onto him – hidden itself in his soul, made itself _a part of him_ – was … fading. _**I- n't- hear-**_

Harry shivered not for the last time and closed his mismatched eyes miserably.

_What is it? _He cried silently. _What can I do, to make this _better_?_

And, to his surprise, for the first time in hours; he heard _that voice_ perfectly. Although, this could be because only one word was needed to convey exactly what those flames wanted from him. That one word was spoken harshly, the first time he'd heard that voice rise in anger or determination or any sort of aggression. And that word was-

_**Burn**_.

* * *

Harry curled himself over the stove, leaning in to that tiny gas flame and breathing heavily, his breath frosting the air in tiny gusts of mist.

_**Hurry.**_

Harry shuddered and grabbed the day-old newspaper beside him, ripping a thin shred away, shoving it into the hot blue flame and watching as it immediately curled into a fine black ash.

_**Agai-**_

Harry grabbed a thicker selection this time, holding the corner of the newspaper directly to the stove and watching in a kind of sick glee as it _all_ lit aflame, curling away and dissolving into grey and black soot as the orange flames danced their way through the pages.

But it _still_ hadn't soothed the aching in his bones, in his heart. Nearly crying with desperation, Harry dragged his fingers through the still-hot remains of the paper, his last hope for-

_Warmth._

It blossomed from those fingertips, it surged down his arms and into his chest, it lit afire every _nerve_ in his body in an all-encompassing _ecstasy_ until he just about _screamed_ with pure, unadulterated _pleasure-_

He gasped for breath as if it were his first, rubbing his thumb and finger together and staring at the ash caught between them in wonder.

_This_, was fire. _This_ was what it was made to do.

An uncontrollable grin spread over his face, as the flames in his dying eye hurled back to life and heat poured through his body, a whispering voice in the corner of his mind silently applauding his recovery.

This was what _he_ was _made_ to do.

He was made – to _burn_.

* * *

Several pounds worth of firewood and a hotel room which actually boasted a working fireplace was all Harry needed before he could finally shed the layers and layers of clothing that had earned him – _strange_ looks at the reception. Now clothed only in _one_ pair of knee-length, baggy jeans and a thin white cotton shirt, his hair mussed and his face alight with life, Harry finally looked the part of a healthy, glowing teenager.

Today he'd decided to wear the colourless eye contacts, with reflective sunglasses strapped over-top to hide his 'fireye,' as he'd taken to calling it. Locating his trusty lighter and slipping it into his left pocket, Harry grabbed his new black-leather wallet and slipped out of the room, padding along the carpet softly in his new white sneakers.

That morning, that day, those hours of unrestrained _panic_ – had been horrible. Never, never again did he ever want to experience that unexplainable feeling of _horror_, of a mind-numbing cold that froze over his soul and cut off all thought and sensation. Never, never, _never_ again did he _ever_ want that voice, that salvation, to be taken away from him.

So, that afternoon's goal to accomplish, was a way to _stop_ it from ever occurring to him.

Three new lighters, each from a different store so as not to arouse suspicion; one of them linked to a chain to be tied on his belt, one a cheap plastic disposable as a back-up and the last a proper metallic one such as his First, although with plain sides he planned to personally engrave later that night. Also, ten large boxes of matches – over a thousand matches, he counted on the spot – and spare lighting paper just in case. Followed by a tiny flask of gasoline that had been near _impossible_ to hunt down, about the size of a vodka shot and easily hidden in his cloak for school. He also invested in several new candles, although he didn't plan on opening them until the ones he currently help council with dripped their last drop of wax and spluttered into darkness for their very last time.

Leaving the last shop, Harry turned to the next item on his agenda – fuel. Things that could be lit, things that would catch, things that would _burn_.

Realizing it would be somewhat suspicious, not to mention extremely hard, to carry around cart loads of wood, Harry began to look for other sources of the soothing ash which was the only cure for the Cold he had found. What made his job harder was that it had to be simple things, everyday things he could pass off as casual if discovered in his Hogwarts things. Eventually, he decided on a vast collection of muggle playing cards, two large bags of cotton wool, several "reading" books (most of them with titles such as "Embers" or "Playing with Fire," something he found sickly ironic), a small bag of coal he planned to hide in a soon-to-be-empty packet of chocolate peanuts, and he figured if worst came to worst, he could always take a wander down to the Forbidden Forest and_ let himself go__. _

Whistling to himself as he carried his purchases back to the room, Harry couldn't help but feel pleased with how things had progressed from the miserable existence he'd lived barely three weeks ago. Now, not only did he have a purpose and defined _meaning_ in life, but he had also gained what he suspected would be a life-long partner, someone who would always be there with him, someone who would and could never leave him, and it was this thought alone that brought such lightness to his heart and a bounce to his step.

_**I see you're happy, Harry, **_the amused voice commented as he laid out his newest toys and ran his hands over them gleefully.

"Oh, I _am_," Harry replied enthusiastically, not caring that to anyone watching he was apparently talking to himself. "So much has changed in the past week … and – it's all thanks to you. So, thank you, fire." Harry smiled at empty air, imagining his silent companion before him and grinning at the delighted, child-like laugh he heard in response.

_**Call me Nurya**_, it whispered. _**God's Flame. **_

"Nurya …" Harry whispered, his eyes glazing over as he ran through the fla- _Nurya's,_ words. Then, he smiled once again as he broke from his trance and moved back as he began to store the items in his backpack – realizing that his trunk had been left at Privet Drive, and that he would need to get himself another when school lists were sent out. "Thank you, Nurya."

_**It's my pleasure, Harry, **_Nurya murmured. _**Serve me well, and I in turn will serve you. Treasure me and fuel that which now burns inside you, and I promise you – I will stay with you for all time. **_

Harry's eyes glittered both fondly, and sadly, sad perhaps because it was the first – and he knew, deep down, the last – time he would ever hear such a true declaration on his behalf.

"That's all I could ever ask for ..."

Deep-set contentment rumbled in his chest, and it was with a settled mind and complete heart that Harry finally lay down that night, early in his sudden weariness for the action-filled day, and slept in an embrace he had never before dreamed could exist.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh my God! This thing has a vague semblance of PLOT! :P Okay, quick question: Should 'The Umbitch' show up in this fanfiction, or not? I've already got a kinda-idea of where this is heading, but I'd like a little bit of feedback first. Thanks for reading!


	4. Fourth Light

**Burn**

(.dluow ti thgouht I naht regnol koot sihT) .sgnittes ro semeht ,sretcarahc gniniatrep eht fo yna ron rettoP yrraH nwo ton od I :**remialcsiD**

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for the feedback, guys! There seems to be a bit of a recurring theme among the responses – involving Umbitch's presence, then prompt re-enactment of the medieval witch-burnings that may or may not have anything to do with Harry. (shifty eyes.) We'll see. But anyway, thanks so much for the awesome reviews! They keep me writing and happy! Well, reviews, _and_ chicken wings. (drools)

Sorry this is a bit of a filler/epic-long-explanation chapter. I'm still trying to figure out a workable plot for this thing!

* * *

_Fourth Light_

Weeks passed in a uniform fashion; Harry woke to the whispers of Nurya, danced his way through streets and bookstores to their comforting voice then worshipped the candles to his flame's encouraging words and murmurs. His night and days marched to the rhythm of that second heartbeat smoldering away beside his own, feelings of warmth and love and companionship constantly radiating until the smile that had before been so, so rare was now never seen absent from his shining face.

He gathered ever more things to feed his newest hunger, the food his friends and family partook no longer nourishing his body, water no longer quenching his thirst. Soon his room, his bags, his new school trunk, his clothes, his pockets, _everywhere_ he could possible imagine, was filled with combustibles, lighters, matches, even flint stones. Nothing was spared; tissue paper, thick notepads, strips of oiled cloth, cans of spray-deodorant, bottles of alcohol in varying sizes, novels as thick as his hand was wide, day planners, cardboard, parchment, quills, hairbrushes, pencils, pencil-_cases;_ everything he saw wandering both on muggle and wizard streets, that he could burn, he took. And promptly burnt.

Noting that it was the ashes themselves which most thoroughly served his need - although fire also, definitely helped – Harry took much joy in preparing capsules, bottles, tins, cans and jars full of smoky grey, gritty black and fragile white ash. He even bought more of the women's make-up cases, compacts be believed they were called, which usually held mirrors and powder foundation; these he removed, then replaced with charcoal – a wood that had already been partially burnt – to smooth his fingers over in case of emergencies.

His birthday was rapidly approaching, and with it the day which marked mid-holidays. It would soon be time for him to return to Hogwarts, to begin his fifth year as a Gryffindor student alongside his friends and peers. The day before the thirty-first of July, the day before his fifteenth birthday, found Harry sitting cross-legged before the fireplace. Nurya was surprisingly quiet, leaving the teenaged boy to his own devices and a moment of quiet reflection.

For Harry was currently debating in his mind two choices; two very, very important choices he knew could result in two very, _very_ different outcomes.

The first, and one he had assumed to take the moment he'd picked up that first lighter.

Return to Hogwarts; and, upon his return, change nothing. Continue to live and breathe the fire he had consumed, or rather that had consumed him, be open with his newfound power and glory, show no shame in himself as he would have only months before.

But yet, there was something about this option which … did not _appeal_ to Harry. And it was the thought of _sharing_.

He had never been a selfish person; he had never thought of himself, only of others, only of _their_ safety, only of _their_ prosperity. So of course it had never occurred to him to keep the newest developments in his life secret. His secrets were their secrets; they, his friends, mattered more than he did.

But Nurya, _Nurya_, how could he tell them of Nurya, the flame that _possessed_ him? How could he describe to them the heat that blossomed in his chest at the mere sight of fire, how would they understand just _why_ he had given himself to this sentient being he didn't, and couldn't, understand?

No; he could not tell of Nurya, he could not share this secret with them. He _would_ _not_ share this secret with them. It was _his_ secret, one of the first he would ever truly keep to himself, and himself alone. It was something selfish, something self-centered and something purely _his_.

And so; the second option. Tell no one. Let no one know of the bliss he had found, let _no one_ know that he had found eternity wreathed in flame and fallen so deep he would never find his own two feet again, let alone stand on them without the aid of _God's Flame_.

This would be the first time he had ever hidden something from them, the first time he would ever turn his back on Ron and Hermione, the first time …

But, as the saying goes, there is a first time for everything.

Ever since they'd first become friends, ever since they'd first met, Harry had found himself to be strangely dependent on them, more so than he gauged to be usual between friends. After all, what eleven-year-old child leaves his life in the hands of a fellow child they had met mere months before? They had always, always been there, to the point where he couldn't fully distinguish himself from them; it wasn't _Harry,_ it wasn't _Ron_, it wasn't _Hermione;_ it was Harry _and_ Ron _and_ Hermione, and in their minds, that was the way it would always be.

"No more," Harry whispered to the fireplace, which cracked softly in reply, meaningless words meant for comfort only. "I'm my own person … they don't … they can't know what this is. They don't know what this feels like." He wasn't making sense, and he knew it, but …

Selfish ... no, it wasn't just for this reason Harry wanted - or rather, needed - to keep this secret from even his closest confident. There was another, darker, reason - a reason Nurya had alluded to once or twice in their bizzarre conversations, and a reason he had taken the care to investigate thoroughly.

Research through various books purchased from … _dubious_ stores in both Diagon and Nockturn Alleys, and a public Wizarding library three stores down past Gringotts, showed him the history behind Nurya, and others such as Nurya. Spirits of Flame, where enough light and heat and care and attention and _worship _for fire had bonded to become a sentient being capable of thought and emotion. There had been only a very few of them over the span of history, not bound just to fire but to other elements also such as earth or shadow, but even across them all there was very little solid information regarding them. Vague questions and vaguer answers were all Harry could find on these Spirits, with legends and bed-time stories filtering through once in a while.

From what he had been able to piece together, Spirits of any kind were passive beings, unable to survive without their sustenance, the element or feature from which their Spirit had spawned. For a handful of centuries they would roam the world, trapped to whichever object they had been borne from, most of them weakening before they found a suitable host. Those few that did find hosts, however, were quick to possess – as Nurya had been – and their element, Nurya's of fire, passed to the hosts themselves. In short, by binding themselves to hosts, the Spirits' life was entwined with theirs, and in return, the hosts were charged with the task of keeping said Spirit alive under pain of both their deaths.

The theory itself wasn't spiteful or evil, merely another creature making it's way in the world, but the problem lay in the types of Spirits that had been created over the years. Most spirits – like Nurya, or some of the other purer elements of water and light – remained submissive and hidden in their host's bodies, their needs simple and harmless to others, and as such were never discovered resulting in a long, peaceful lifespan. But, _some_ Spirits' needs were more diverse, and dangerous to those around them, and it was these Spirits whose attention was more often brought to the people of the earth.

One such Spirit, a Spirit of Life, Harry found documented in one of the more recent editions of a _Legends of_ _Magical Beings_ volume. A Spirit of Life; it seemed harmless at first, after all, life was perceived as a good thing, a thing of health and peace and wellbeing. One simply did not tag 'Life' with 'Evil,' it went against the intuition most humans held. Yet, the nature of this spirit was far crueler than any of the others, perhaps the most cruel of all. For the Spirit of Life, fed on life itself. The host of this Spirit was forced to watch as energy was drained from all who came close, killing hundreds of people in the dense town she lived in at the time, and eventually look her own life in order to save the few who were left, taking time only to write the horrors that had befallen her in the hopes it would never happen again.

Of course, news of an entire town falling over dead in the space of one winter did not go unnoticed; news of the Spirit was soon widely known throughout the Wizarding Community, and for a short time even in the Muggle one, too. Within years, Spirits went from complete anonymity, to one of the most infamous and hated, placed among the most dangerous of beings.

This, of course, had taken place centuries past; but fear such as that rarely left society, and even the rare allusion to Spirits was enough to leave the Witch or Wizard shivering, wondering why they were doing so. Dumbledore, in all his ancient wisdom, would surely know far too much of Spirits. If he caught even a whisper of Harry having been possessed by one …

_Exorcism. _

Harry could _feel_ Nurya shudder within him, and echoed the gesture wholeheartedly. The only way to remove Spirits, according the decade-old article on _The Undead; Beings Which Do Not Live,_ was a proper, thorough, prompt exorcism.

Harry had never cursed his curiosity more than he had that night reading his newest book, a thin glossy paperback _Rituals, Exorcisms and Blood Magic_. An exorcism, in the Wizarding sense, leant more heavily in the direction of "ritual" than the actual _Muggle_ rendition of exorcism, yet it was still classed as such due to the purpose of the rite and the conditions they were performed under.

"_Stand in the darkness of a New Moon; a symbol of rebirth. Three day fast; to weaken the Spirit. Bathed in the blood of a willing Unicorn; purity and good health. A dozen men and women, not a virgin among them; to lead the possessed through the darkness, and save their eternal soul from the clutches of an evil being that seeks only pain, destruction and the death of all who gaze upon it. Once conditions are met, the dozen chant an appropriate verse; an iron dagger is taken to the possessed's palms, blood taken three times within each hour while an elder speaks to the victim's heart … "_

It truly was a _"shame"_, Harry spitefully thought, that of the countless exorcisms Wizards had performed through the years … not a single one had survived the night. Not. A. _Single_. One.

He hadn't regretted burning that book. In fact, he had rather enjoyed it, more than he had any other book or hunk of thick wood he'd thrown into that ever-burning pit before him.

"Nuyra?"

_**Yes, my Harry?**_

A smile blossomed over his face, washing away all and any depressing thoughts leaving only the comfort and love of the Spirit.

"Don't ever leave me … okay?"

_**Of course, Harry,**_ Nurya purred gently. _**Never. You're mine … and I don't ever intend to let anyone take me away from you.**_

Harry's eyes closed in happiness and he leant back onto the wooden floor, his arms eagle-spread and palms flat to the ground as he gazed with both eyes as warm red light played over the dark ceiling.

"I can't tell them about you, Nurya," he murmured softly. "You know what will happen if I do." A tear traced down the side of his face, but he didn't move to brush it away. "I can't let that happen to us, Nurya. You're-" his breathing hitched almost painfully, "-you're a part of me, now. I couldn't bear it if they took you away."

_**I know Harry, and trust me when I say I would do anything to stop that from happening, **_**anything**_**. **_

Harry sighed and rubbed one hand over his eyes, fighting back a weary headache that was forming.

"I wish ..."

_**Hm?**_

"I wish … I _wish_ ..." Harry shook his head. He didn't know _what_ he wished, exactly, just that something wasn't right and he wanted it gone, something was wrong and he wanted it changed. A bitter laugh tore it's way from him. "It doesn't matter what I wish, does it? I can't stop the inevitable. They'll find out someday, I _know_ they will, it's just how they are. I don't know what's going to happen but-" his voice cracked, and he fell silent for a handful of minutes, before- "But … I don't regret this, Nurya. I don't regret knowing you. I don't regret being possessed by you. In fact, it's probably one of the best things that's ever happened to me."

Nurya didn't answer, just as Harry did not continue. Emotions spoke louder than words, and there was no mistaking the warmth and love they shared unconditionally. Nurya was a part of _him_, _he_ was a part of _Nurya_, there was nothing more to it. He had given himself to Fire, and Fire had given itself to him in return.

And, somehow … it felt _right._

* * *

Midnight was a … strange time for Harry to say the least. Before that day, before fire, before Nurya, he was often seen frequenting the hour of midnight, his homework and subsequent wellbeing upon returning school depending on it. But in recent times, he had noticed a growing trend in his days, his sleep the most obvious change of all. His usual patterns once involved falling into bed some time between one and two in the morning, then waking at eight (on week days) or eleven in weekends.

Now, however, he found himself uncommonly exhausted as early as nine, and often it was all he could do not to fall unconscious by the time ten o'clock came calling. His body clock, too, had adjusted itself, until he found himself waking earlier than he ever had, six, even five o'clock in the morning on some days.

Questioning Nurya on this matter revealed their new partnership to have … changed him.

He was now more sensitive to matters such as light and warmth, to the point where without one or the other over an extended period of time, he might as well dig his own grave. Fire required three simple things to thrive, as was common knowledge; air, fuel and heat. Air, of course, he had no problem in that regard. Fuel; he himself was the most basic fuel, although ashes kept both himself and Nurya alive far better than his own magical power could. But warmth … warmth was where they both drew short.

Right now, in the hottest months of the year, in summer time where the sun beat down and the concrete radiated heat, warmth was no concern to them. But in winter, where snow and sleet would be washing down on them and not even charms were enough to keep the cold away … this was what they feared.

But, no matter; winter was winter, and it was months away. Harry, for once, cared only for the here and now.

And what was here and now … was a teenager desperately struggling to keep himself conscious long enough to see his passage into the age of fifteen.

He'd never had problems staying this late, even as a child, but with his new sensitivity came an unfortunate side effect. Sure, he would now be able to sense fire even through solid rock, sure he would be able to leap into an onslaught of fiendfyre unscathed … but it came at a cost.

The sun.

It didn't _rule_ his life, per say, rather … had an unusual influence over him. After all, the sun was essentially a colossal ball of pure fire and light; how could it not? He found himself basking in the warmth of the sun far more often than he'd ever thought to before, to the point where his skin even darkened a little. However, much to his disgruntlement, he also found himself, late in the hours of night … pining.

Well, okay, not _pining_ pining … more like, sitting at the window, nose pressed to the glass, staring at the moon and wishing the light that fell was more than just a reflection. It was, most certainly, _not_ pining, he would tell himself firmly – even while Nurya chuckled lightly in the back of his mind.

In any case, during those somehow _lonely_ hours of night, he found himself to be unusually … distracted. Not to the point where he was an invalid, but more to an end result of tense nerves, tapping fingers and nervous eyes glancing almost desperately towards the nearest flame or light every few minutes.

It made waiting up for the anniversary of his birth – the very minute where he was born – a little … frustrating.

By ten, Nurya was berating him or being so twitchy. By eleven, he thought he'd just about burst a vessel. Half eleven, and a _very_ persistent headache was building.

He had never been happier to see twelve o'clock come. Smiling into the fireplace for a full minute, he maintained his silent vigil for only a moment – numbly acknowledging Nurya's muffled blessings – before staggering to the adjacent room and falling face-first into the bed, his eyes already closed.

And thus missed the dull thuds of small bodies against the window, the scratches of tiny claws on the shuttered wood and distant caws of frustrated owls as they finally vanished into the distance, their intended recipient completely oblivious to the panic, outcry and resulting chaos he was about to cause in the Wizarding World.

* * *

**Heads up: **I have final exams in … (checks calendar) a week. Oops. So; there will either be so many updates you won't know what to do with them (please let this not be so), or you won't hear from me again for another two weeks or so.


End file.
